


it's only awkward if you let it be

by queerlittlething (thezerocard)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Drabble, Gen, M/M, The Midnight All-Night Diner, typical night vale disturbia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thezerocard/pseuds/queerlittlething
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I decided that the citizens of Night Vale probably spawn in, like, <em>litters, </em>because there is no way if you only have one child they’re going to survive into adulthood. Better safe than sorry, right?</p><p>And then fic happened."</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's only awkward if you let it be

**Author's Note:**

> Imported from tumblr, where you can find me as queerlittlething!

Carlos was discovering that first-date small talk was not, in fact, as universal as he’d assumed. Of course, after a full year in Night Vale, he ought to have known by now that it was safe to assume nothing here, not even the laws of physics, and yet he’d gone boldly forward anyway. It seemed like a safe enough question.

"So, do you have any brothers or sisters?" He’d asked, fork hovering over a spoonful of startlingly delicious apple pie from the Moonlight All-Night Diner. Cecil had looked at him curiously. (The other man’s plate appeared to contain nothing at all, but it definitely put up resistance as Cecil dug his fork in, and Carlos himself could not help but feel that there was somehow…less nothing…than there was when the plate had been put on the table. Carlos was determined not to ask.)

"Well, of course!" Cecil replied, chipper as always. Carlos had yet to determine if the radio host’s cheerful demeanor was a product of growing up willfully blind in Night Vale or Carlos’ own company, but it was…endearing. Cecil took another bite of his nothing, frowned slightly in thought, then continued, “I’m one of…seventeen, I believe."

"Seventeen?!" Carlos repeated incredulously. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “You _believe?_ ”

Cecil shrugged and made a face. “The last few were born in fractions, it’s all very tricky math. I think  the exact number is something like 16.66669, but we rounded up so Billy would feel better about the whole thing. He was the youngest."

Carlos opened his mouth, then shut it again. He ran a hand through his hair (heard Cecil make a curious whimpering noise) and blew out an exasperated breath. People couldn’t— that wasn’t even— _fractions?_ And if he asked, Cecil would indubitably be able to provide evidence, maybe even pull out some baby pictures, and why shouldn’t he, children born in decimal points were probably _adorable_. He sighed again. His shoulders slumped.

"So, ah, seventeen of you. That’s quite a lot in one house," he said finally. Cecil smiled and shrugged, tapping the tines of his fork against his bottom lip.

"Not really. The quintuplets were abducted right out of elementary school, and then Robbie joined a vague yet menacing government agency, and what with the ant infestation there were never more than six of us in the house at a time. And, of course, now it’s just me." He gave a sheepish little grin, like he’d been caught out gloating, and set his fork down on the table with a satisfied groan. “Invisible pie! What _did_ I tell you, Carlos, that sweet woman really knows her way around a modern kitchen, eh?" Carlos refused to be distracted.

"It’s just you," he repeated flatly. “Of all your siblings, you’re the only one that’s…left?"

"Mhmmm," Cecil crooned. “Last Baldwin standing! They gave me a quaint little medal at the ceremony and everything, would you believe it? I still have it somewhere, of course. They’re wonderful heirlooms." Carlos breathed in and counted to ten.

"They gave you a medal because all your siblings _died_?"

"Don’t be ridiculous! They gave me a medal because _I didn’t,_ Carlos, there’s no need to be morbid! It’s a perfectly respectable tradition, and it goes back quite a long way. We try to keep the ceremony as historically accurate as possible, of course, but what with modern day shipping laws-"

"Cecil." This, somehow, got through to his companion in a way that his  _completely justified_ panicked inquiries had not. Cecil’s face twisted with worry, his eyes large and…glistening.

"Oh, dear. Oh, oh dear. I think we’ve hit something of a cultural stumbling block, Carlos, and I’m  _terribly_ sorry, please forgive me, you just seem so, so  _natural_ here, you know. I’d quite forgotten that you didn’t grow up here." Carlos found that difficult to believe, but he was willing to accept the apology, if only because the way Cecil was twisting his hands as though strangling something was beginning to unnerve him. He made an encouraging little ‘go on,’ gesture with his fork. Cecil pursed his lips and nodded.

"You may not have noticed, Carlos, but Night Vale has a…well…a  _little problem,"_ he said, holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart, “With, premature deaths. Or, well,  _absences._ Death is rarely awarded. It’s mostly to do with geographical location, you know, the desert is just  _so_ inhospitable and what with one thing or another we tend to…lose…quite a few of the children. They’re so delicate, you understand. Tiny, and sweet, and they have such a hard time getting their fingers around machine gun triggers, bless them." He made a  _tsk_ noise, and shook his head.

"Well. Parents had to compensate, of course, and what with the  _wonderful_ fertility treatments available here, and the simply  _divine_ child-care provided by the Sheriff’s Secret Police, well, your average Night Vale household tends to have fifteen to twenty little squirming ankle-biters at one time or another! It’s really very good for the community. Why, between our house and the Parsons’, we had enough for two full football teams!" Cecil chucked as he recalled this fond childhood memory.

Carlos stared at him for a long moment, forkful of pie halfway to his mouth. Eventually it was too much. He laughed, helplessly, slightly hysterically, until he was bent double with his forehead on the table.  _This town, christ._ He pulled himself up (skin separating from the faux-wooden surface of the table with a quiet  _schlick!)_ and smiled at Cecil, who looked nothing short of delighted.

"I’m going to grab another slice of that delicious pie. And possibly a small  drink. Actually, quite probably a large drink. Would you like anything?"

"Oh no," Cecil breathed. “Oh no, Carlos. I am just  _fine."_


End file.
